A Few Years Hence
by MiiYuKira
Summary: Like the title suggests, it's a few years after the main events of Skyrim, and the Dragonborn/Thieves' Guild Leader/Listener yes, she's a jaded jack-of-all-trades is just roaming the place alongside a new companion with a mystery of his own. *I have plans for some Thalmor-intrigue, but we'll see, for now*
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Something that's been bouncing around in my head- demanding to be written despite my other commitments to Dragon Age, so I've decided to finally post it and try to exorcise this from my system. Okay, nothing so sinister, but you get my drift, yes?

Summary: Like the title suggests, it's a few years after the main events of Skyrim, and the Dragonborn/Thieves' Guild Leader/Listener/Arch-mage (yes, she's a jaded jack-of-all-trades) is just roaming the place with a new companion with a mystery of his own.

Much more will be added, but I sincerely hope I do get a break from writing this so I can finish the other stories I've started. The rest will be up to popularity, I will only continue if people like this chapter enough, so leave a review or pm if you are intrigued by the concept- Thanks!

* * *

**A Few Years Hence**

Skjári was allowed to travel with her, for as long as he wanted. So, he watched camp for her while she slept, watched her back in battle as she led the way to a cavern's depths, and fended off unwanted attentions as a pair than a solitary soul. She in turn, was perfectly fine at leaving the speaking to him, and those who wished to hire her blade knew enough to approach him instead. She was content to sit in inns, sipping from tankards the local brew, gazing pensively into an unknown distance. This suited him, though sometimes, it could be days before she uttered more than a sentence to him; her monosyllabic murmurs barely replied his very many queries.

He had once complained that she was altogether too silent, that what they had needed an improvement in communication, but all she said was, "You are welcome to leave."

He stopped asking. In truth, he could no longer imagine a life on his own—out in the lonely wilderness. Skjári was not born with that name—he had a comfortable life as a nobleman, very close to royalty in the west. He ran from that, believing that his path lay elsewhere. Beyond endless feasting and mingling amongst others like him; pale, pasty, bloated with mead even—barely able to swing a blade with any efficiency.

It seemed that even she had considered that, her sudden words that one night struck new hope in his heart.

"We won't need two tents. You may have access to mine."

He had sputtered, like the fool that he was. "_Share_? That—is not ap-propria—"

The warrior stared back at him shortly, before pouring herself a mug of tea. "We take _separate_ watches each night— there is _no_ inappropriateness."

"Oh. I… see. My bad."

"You're forgiven." There—a flicker of the elusive grin, a smile half-imagined, was forming round the rim of her cup. This disappeared in a flash, but it was progress. He was getting there.

xOxOx

He had followed her, tracked her from the trail of blood—not _her_ blood mind you, but apparently the redness belonged to the bandit clan she had very recently slaughtered in their own lair—for there to be this much, meant that the woman had to be practically bathed in it.

The droplets led him to a nearby spring, where her ebony war horse stood guard, flaming red eyes eyeing everything that moved. A _dreadmare_—the stuff of legends—being in this woman's possession, made her even more remarkable in his eyes. So far, he had witnessed her take apart a pair of giants, a cave of trolls, the bandit clan, as well as the huge spiders that had infested a mine. She accepted payments when the grateful people offered, but never stayed long in an area.

She rose from the water's edge, a pale goddess—dressed in the thinnest of underclothes, and these hid nothing from his already overactive mind. The linen was certainly clinging to parts of her anatomy, still very wet, almost translucent in the growing light of the mid-day sun. Her fierce red hair was damp, tamed by moisture, hanging loose about her firm shoulders.

The womanly curves he saw depicted it all. He had long suspected that the stranger who rode into his father's lands was female, though everyone else used the honorific 'ser', referring to their savior as a true _man_ of honor and might. He had guessed that the height and build of the constantly armored person could not be male, that way 'he' walked was not overtly masculine. Skjári knew that under that ebony platemail was the figure of a woman, but he had not expected one like _this_. He stared, unabashed, following the scores of long-healed wounds that covered her skin. The horrors that such flesh had endured—survived—made the shift of her lean muscles beneath the uneven ridges an irresistible thing to watch.

She bent, scrubbing the already-dried stains on her black platemail, revealing more of her fair, though scarred skin, allowing more than an eyeful of that rather well-developed bosom. He looked away—_this_—was akin to spying, something he found very distasteful, and Skjári finally turned his back on that…distracting image.

The subsequent rustle of the bush was unexpectedly loud, and the piercing gaze of the stallion honed in on Skjári's position, the menacing gallop and snorts suddenly crossing the distance, crashing through the vegetation. By _Ysmir_, the dreadmare's seemed to breathe fire, its vicious teeth so exposed, charging straight at him—red glints afire in its eyes.

He scrambled, as fast as a man in full steel armor could allow, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the heavy iron-shod hooves lifted above his head. He raised his hands in surrender—and came face to face with the barely-clothed woman, staring into large violet eyes set in a youthful face. For all her strength and skill in battle, Skjári had never thought she would be this—_pretty_.

The blades she held to his throat pressed wickedly on the unprotected skin, just below the line of brown fuzz of his week-old beard and Skjári cursed that he had taken off the helm when he had stopped to watch her. She must think of him as a lowly peeper, and would hear no explanations before ripping him to pieces, beginning with his man-parts. Or throat. Or eyes. He had witnessed the ways she dealt with those stupid enough to cross her path.

But the roars stopped her, the tell-tale cries of the huge bears which lived in the region.

She then cursed in a most unladylike fashion, before sprinting back to the spring. Skjári followed, his concern for her coupled with curiosity, of the source of her sudden distraction.

A huge male mammal was making off with her pack; its claws having scrabbled ineffectually at the straps that proved quite the challenge, being crafted out of _dragonhide_. Skjári recognized the make as expensive, and was intrigued that the woman had access to such rare materials. Perhaps the rumors of her felling dragons were true. Yet, the exasperated sounds she made while bounding over boulders and finally cornering the bear added to his fascination— she was _human_ after all, and not the statue of stoicism he once thought. But as he watched the woman make her way swiftly down the steep rocky cliff, he noticed that the bear was trying, with all its might to shove its muzzle into the various compartments in search of food. The bluntness of its nose, coupled with the clumsy way it tried undoing the pack's leather fastenings succeeded in nothing but a ludicrous, comical image that the woman missed entirely.

Her moment of animation had flashed him more than just a glance of her bare thighs, and for a moment, Skjári half-hoped that she would fight the creature, so scantily clad, but the plate-sized hooves that clapped down upon the animal's head left only a carcass dead on its four paws. Her _dreadmare_ had proved itself to be a most efficient killer.

Skjári decided he was extremely relieved that the warrior had reached him ahead of her savage steed.

xOxOx

It was important to remain alert, while camping in the wilderness, this was why Skjári did all he could to stay awake, as difficult as it was, with nothing but the chirp of crickets to pass the night. He idled, scratching little sketches of the woman who lay asleep in her tent, of words she could have said—to him—during the course of their day. He wished she asked about him, so he could lie; create a story about his past, remaking himself in her eye. Skjári knew that she never cared about his history, she accepted everything he told her—even from the first. Well, that had not been an exact lie, but it had not been the truth, either.

xOxOx

"Now, you." She turned to him, still not exactly clothed, but the red blood from skinning the bear covered more of her skin. Skjári noticed that she seemed to do that very often. Messy. She didn't even seem to mind the bits of flesh which still clung to her arm, though her blades were now being wiped down most meticulously.

"Wha—?" He had no ready reply, taking the pelt from the woman, scrubbing it thoroughly with the spring water scooped with his helm.

"Your _ready_ excuse for being here." She was done with her swords, and spinned them with a casual flick of her wrists.

"I…was—okay, I don't have anything." He gave up. He definitely could not lie under pressure, not when a woman in blood-soaked undergarments questioned him. Moreover, if she had wanted to hurt him, she would have done so already. At least…he hoped this was so, rather fervently.

It was suddenly all quiet, before the woman shrugged off the stained cloths, sinking into the clear spring water. Skjári didn't know what to think.

He tried to speak, but couldn't. Her free-spirited ways were distracting.

"Fair enough. You may leave." Came her reply, and to be perfectly honest, wasn't what he had in mind. Skjári found himself protesting, unconsciously turning to the woman in her _bath_, attempting to articulate his wish to journey by her side, completely forgetting that the rocks that lined the edge were damp, and hence, very slippery.

In that second, he found himself deep underwater, and drowning with the weight of his armor. He tried to right himself towards the shine of daylight, but all he succeeded in doing was sinking further to the bottom, but that last view he had, of her perfectly nude body reaching out for him, auburn hair floating out behind her with the fading rays of daylight—was _glorious_.

xOxOx

But wait, he hadn't gotten to the part with the lie yet—though one could not blame him for getting… distracted. Soon, he promised. Very soon.


	2. Chapter 2: An Introduction

_**Chapter 2: An Introduction**_

So deep in his thoughts Skjari was, that he didn't hear the warrior clambering awake in time for her watch. Nudging him slightly, the woman muttered something that sounded like "sleep", her voice thick, though her eyes were bright and alert. Skjari nodded in response, climbing into the same furs on which she had lain. They were still warm with the heat of her body, and soon, he fell into a slumber that translated the rest of the memories from his first night with her.

xOxOx

He had woken, warm, on _(what felt like)_ a clean bed, listening to the sound of a crackling fire. The aroma of something met his nose, a rich salty flavour of cooking. His eyes gradually opened, and he watched the figure stir the pot intently, before realising that it was the woman— the one who he had been following for the past few days, all the way from Dagon Fell.

Thankfully, she was clothed now in some coarse linen, and her hair was no longer damp, though it still flamed with the brilliant colour of fire. She turned abruptly, seeming to feel his gaze lingering on her exposed neck, and Skjari felt chastised, though he had not meant to leer.

She did not appear to believe in speaking the obvious; saying nothing as she ladled the food into two bowls, before walking over to him.

Skjari panicked, his mind searching for the right words to express his gratitude towards her hospitality, as well as his deplorable behaviour from earlier. He felt a fool as he leapt from the bed, tossing all covers aside, only to find himself naked as a babe, and her unwavering stare. He did everything at once, tried to appear natural, tried to cover himself as discreetly as he could, and tried backing away, before falling over the bed. A small smile grew on the woman's face, but she obliged his burning sensibilities by looking away as she set down the tray.

She seemed so quick, almost magicking some linens into his hands (for he was still mortified), before she disappeared into a cellar. Skjari found the linen to be clothes, though coarse, were well-made. He had never worn pants of such a make, but they didn't chafe as much as his friends had bemoaned once upon a time.

She reappeared almost as soon as he dressed, laying down the platemail that was his armour. Still, nothing was said, and her silence unnerved him—and so he babbled.

He tried to keep that image out of his mind, for there was her modesty to think about. "Many thanks; I would have drowned if you had not come to my aid."

She only continued laying out the food, handing him pieces of fresh bread, and pouring mugs of ale.  
"My name is…" he paused, working up the nerve to lie, his voice failing him. The warrior only stared at him; her eyes seemed to twinkle faintly though her face remained blank.

"Skjari." he finished, giving no account of his past, hoping that he'd remember the falsehoods that he had prepared.

"Like the gulls?" she commented, seeming to no one in particular. The momentary stilling of Skjari's pounding heartbeat allowed him to hear the same cries of the birds, the owners of the poetic _(or so he thought)_ name he picked in a moment of romantic folly.

"Yes," with that, he dug in, swallowing the almost-scalding liquid that was the meaty stew, anything, to break eye contact.

He soon finished what he had, his appetite ravenous, before another bowl was put in front of him. Skjari was embarrassed at his manners, but the allure of this delicious meal allowed time only for a nod, and he bent over the food again.

After what seemed like a long while of stuffing his cheeks, Skjari glanced up at the woman, who still eyed him curiously. She had breadcrumbs on her lips which had been moistened by the ale, but still looked achingly beautiful, as if she belonged in a painting of the holy divines themselves. Sombre and unmoving, she gazed, before she brought the flagon to her lips once again, emptying it of its contents.

"Freia." uttered the warrior, as she left the table. It was her name, thought Skjari, which was the only explanation. She busied around the cosy quarters, her nonchalance even a little intimidating. She seemed so natural, that even as an absolute stranger that Skjari recognized her behaviour as an invitation to stay.

He hovered awkwardly, handing her his bowls _(which had been licked clean)_ and flagons, and she dumped these efficiently in a waiting pail of water.

"Where are we?" he ventured to ask, after another long silence.

"Home," came the muffled answer, and Skjari thought he heard a hesitance when she stopped to think about her reply.

"I meant on the map. Of Skyrim." He stopped to think. "What… _jarldom_… are we?" he had heard that the rulers in this region were called as such.

"Riften."

So they were not far from where he crossed the border, following in the warrior's path from his father's lands. Skjari had heard of this place— Riften was a corrupt area run by the infamous Maven Blackbriar, and the legendary thieves' guild, but the warr— _Freia_, had called it home. Did she know that it was such a seedy place?

Her eyes seemed to linger on him, and they did not seem hostile, or searching. Freia appeared to be judging him, watching his arms as he dried the dishes (however clumsily) seeming to be noting the cords of muscles that bunched up under the shirt. Skjari was proud of his body; he had trained for a time, for such an instance, when he would have his own adventures. It would seem that she was appreciative of such, and Skjari obliged, taking a longer time with the final bowl, his muscles flexing discreetly.

Abruptly, she spoke, the sharpness startling. "Are you quite finished?" Skjari nodded.

"Put on your armour," she all but commanded, and he scrambled to obey. Was she annoyed? It would appear so. They left the house, her in some dark fitting, hooded leather and him in the steel plate he in which he had arrived. She led the way down some steps to the waterway, picked a lock on a gate and turned to face him. Skjari was confused when she told him to step through ahead of her, but he barely had time to protest when she locked the iron bars behind him.

"Head to the Ragged Flagon." she turned to leave, before handing him a blade through the bars, one that was as black as the night.

"You'll need that." she seemed to be hiding a smile as she walked away.

xOxOx

After what seemed to be forever, Skjari finally fell through another door, bleeding from a cut on his forehead—his very first battle scar.

He seemed to have stumbled on a small trade quarters, a circular hall lined by merchants on both sides, a place that stank of leather and the metal wares for sale. He held loosely the blade that Freia had given him, wondering if he should remain on his guard, hoping that he would see the warrior here. He saw chairs, and tables—an inn? Whatever this place was, he felt ready to collapse into a seat and catch his pounding heart.

But a man stood in his way and Skjari raised his arching arm with a sigh. No rest for Skjari then—he thought as he felt a dull ache surge through his veins again.

"Dirge," called a familiar voice from behind the bulk, and the man stepped aside reluctantly. Skjari was relieved when he saw her—Freia, and sheathed the ebony blade. It had been dripping with the dull redness that did nothing but remind him of the death he had brought on those half-crazed men in the dark paths before.

"Sit," she said while leading him toward the odd dingy bar, before disappearing behind what appeared to be a storage cupboard. The men and women in the vicinity watched him while he drank the mead in front of him nervously. He had no idea what was to be expected, but could not feel comfortable until she reappeared again.

She walked back out of the secret compartment (Skjari was now sure that the storage held a hidden door) with another man, one dressed in the dark leather that matched Freia's perfectly.

"Him," she nodded as the red-headed man surveyed Skjari solemnly. Privately, the latter wondered if the two were related, though Freia's hair gleamed with a much brighter copper than the auburn of the man's.

"We haven't heard from you in months, and now you appear with a strapping lad in tow," the man laughed, and the mirth appeared to spread through all present, except himself and Freia.

"Well, I am still unwed, Brynjolf. It's not all that surprising that I pick up an admirer or two," came the dry reply, which caused Skjari to choke. At that, the room roared even louder, and several jeers were heard.

"'bout time you found someone," said a bald man to Skjari's left. He had a most curious accent that was oddly familiar.

"Aye, and you missed the boat again, Brynjolf," Called the keeper from his place at the bar.

"So did all of you, pipe down." Replied the red-headed man curtly.

He noticed that the red-headed man was no longer laughing, though this seemed to go unnoticed by Freia, who was rather more interested in gathering more flagons of ale. She handed these out with a straight face, and took a seat next to him.

"So, an explanation, lass?"

She shrugged delicately. "New recruit for the guild."

"I hate to break it to you, but the lad doesn't look like he has the skills this line of work needs." Skjari was a little miffed by that, but supposed that he didn't look as… _seasoned_ as the men did.

"He's good enough, or he'd never have made it through the Ratway," Freia's voice remained mild.

"With a blade, aye, but surely not…stealthy enough?" Brynjolf eyed the steel armour. Skjari began to wonder what it was these… shady people did for a living, though he couldn't imagine Freia involved in anything like that.

"Well, stealth can be trained, and I say he's decent enough," she glanced sideways at him, almost as if in warning. Skjari was reminded that he had managed to sneak up on her earlier, and she did seem sufficiently embarrassed by that.

The man appeared defeated. "Well, if you're sure."

"Mhm." She muttered from behind the flagon.

Skjari ventured a question, now that everything seemed well and settled. "I don't mean to be rude but… What exactly am I supposed to be doing?"

"_T__hieving_." the man seemed to smirk, knowing that the thoughts repulsed Skjari's sensibilities, though he strove to keep this grin out of Freia's line of sight. The long silence that ensued showed Skjari's doubt, though there really was no way he could have expected this from his valorous heroine.

"Is that agreeable?" she seemed curious again, cocking her head at him.

"I… yes, of course." it certainly wasn't anything he had been prepared for, but surely… Well, as long as he could learn something—he supposed this would do, though his father would be scandalized— but only if he ever got caught doing it.

That seemed to settle things, and Skjari's heart began to beat again. "Gear." This came from the warrior, her voice cutting through the silence.

"What?" Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. It seemed that no one was used to the abrupt way Freia was accustomed to speak in.

"He'll need _gear_." she explained, jerking her head at a dark-skinned woman, who scowled—she did not appear to like Freia very much.

"Aye, Tonilia will give you a set of gear." Brynjolf muttered to him. "I'll… help you with that."

There was a moment as Brynjolf approached the woman at the other table, during which there appeared to be a short argument, before the woman relented sullenly. The leather looked as if it fit, almost too well, for his comfort.


	3. Chapter 3: Get your Sneak up

_**Chapter 3: Getting your Sneak up.**_

"Leather does look good on anyone, well, maybe except Delvin." commented a woman, Vex— as Skjari had heard one person call her. The bald-headed man looked indignant, but winked when he caught Skjari's eye. It was then evident that all the women (as well as one man) were eyeing his new garb and its very fitting posterior. The young man felt himself redden slightly from that compliment, though he wondered what _Freia_ thought of the outfit.

Looking round at her, he saw that she was deep in conversation with a few of his new… family, as they had called themselves, though they were no less diverse than the ranks of nobility he had left. Motley— that was the perfect word— but something deeper seemed to bind them more than their leather armour. It was more than a choice of lifestyle, for there was a genuine familial attitude among them.

She seemed to speak much more freely now, barely noticing as he snuck up behind her, though the sound betrayed his movements faintly.

"Look out, your _gull_ is here to reclaim you," Brynjolf smirked. Hearing this, Freia turned and appraised her new recruit, eyes twinkling in the dim.

"We got everything set up, boss," a gruff voice on Skjari's left approached. The rest murmured their approval, and the young man heard something about a test that seemed particularly amusing to everyone.

"Don't embarrass me," she muttered with a smile, before Skjari found himself being shoved towards a circular room with five chests, being handed several metal pins and told to pick the various containers open.

He was rather, quite glad that he had managed to unlock three of these before the final lockpick broke, though this feat appeared to impress no one else. Skjari saw a glittering of things exchanging hands, as well as several broad winks in his direction. Were they actually gambling on his success? Or failure?

_Or more importantly, __Delvin appeared to be giving Freia a fair amount of gold._

He then failed the other tests quite spectacularly, getting his hand stuck in the dummy's pocket, and then knocking it over in an effort to get free. Skjari was even worse at sneaking, and even though all the torches had been extinguished—he felt tremendously conspicuous each time the new leather squeaked with his movements. The others did not laugh, they were quite civil, and offered dubious advice when he stumbled around the echoing darkness.

xOxOx

Freia had disappeared sometime into the 'tests'— Skjari had seen her climb up a ladder, and she did not reappear till the next morning, her shadow falling on him as she approached from a distance away.

"He's surprisingly good at archery," Delvin's uniquely accented voice informed the guildmaster, who looked thoughtful at that, nodding thoughtfully. "Not a total loss, then," the man snorted.

Skjari noticed that Freia did not appear to have slept the night before and she dressed in a formal outfit that looked to be lined by blue silk, a noble's garb. Her hair was swept back tightly into an elegant bun, but tired crimson tendrils had escaped her best attempts. She now stood by the bed Skjari had chosen— when exhausted by his actions from the night before.

His new 'family' had requested that he shoot at a ridiculous number of things—the sizes of which shrank rapidly as they discovered his hidden talent. The arrows that left his fingers pierced fruit of varying sizes, the handle of a mug, a coin that Brynjolf had tossed—they were amazed, to say the least, at the accuracy of his bow. Too bad Freia had missed such a performance—Skjari wondered whether she would be impressed if she had seen.

But the woman who stood before him only tossed something in his direction, noticing his wakefulness, and Skjari caught it with the tips of his fingers, surprised. He looked down at the object (for it was a small, corundum key) and back at Freia.

She did not clarify, and started to move away, prompting him to get up after her.

"This..." he began, catching up to her, snickering noisily in the dratted new leather.

"Ah. Um...it's the key to the house." she answered, peering round at him.

She couldn't possibly have meant… "House?" he wondered aloud.

"The house in which you woke up earlier. My— home," she finished, frowning faintly at his query. She seemed embarrassed at this need for clarification, and Skjari could have kicked himself for being an idiot.

Delvin sniggered behind him, and Freia gave him a hard glare that did nothing to stop the apparent amusement.

"Oh. Er. Thank you." Skjari felt odd, thinking that there was some deeper meaning to this… invitation.

But she seemed to have mistaken his hesitance for misgiving, for she turned away again, and her voice gained a quality akin to that irritation from before. "Do what you will." she shrugged, turning back to the large desk, pulling out a map from what appeared to be a hidden compartment in the tabletop.

"Aye, someone's taken a liking towards you alright," muttered the bald man with a grin, and Skjari blushed. He didn't know what that really meant—Freia's feelings remained a mystery.

"I'd rather that Maven takes a liking to me. Much of this could be solved if she would just write that blasted missive." The woman muttered distractedly, and both men all but jumped at the sound of her voice. Thankfully, she did not appear to have understood the context of Delvin's words.

xOxOx

"You'll be gone for a while then?" Vex followed the guildmaster as she stocked up on bread and supplies.

"Two weeks at the most," Freia answered, packing the wrapped food into a leather satchel.

"Dawnstar?" the woman blurted abruptly. It did appear that everyone in the Ragged Flagon was sensitive to Freia's affairs elsewhere in Skyrim.

The trek would bear news of the Thalmor movement in the region, but this had to be discreetly, and with as little death as possible. "That vicinity, sure."

"Take the new thief along," Vex offered, strangely persistent, which earned a look from the other woman.

Freia raised an eyebrow, a thin arch of curiousity. "Why?"

"He seems out of place here—it's been over a month, and _Bryn_—well, there _have been_ concerns that the new recruit hasn't taken on a job yet," Vex paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "He also appears to have imprinted on you." The woman hid a smile from her guildmaster, whose vexed look only deepened.

"He's always nearby when you come here, ready and eager." The blonde woman's quick ears had picked up on some tell-tale squeaks behind them.

"Oh? How so?"

"Like a surreptitious puppy," the usually-surly woman offered, and Freia nodded vaguely, before turning to find the man just behind them, looking non-suspiciously into a cupboard of filled with wheels of goat's cheese.

"I suppose that there are a couple of jobs he could help me with in the Pale."

xOxOx

"Shouldn't we get thicker furs?" The man asked, struggling to keep up with Shadowmere's brisk pace, though this was mostly because his own horse would not move any _faster_. He supposed that he _could have_ opted for the lighter leather armour to help lessen the poor steed's burden—but…

He had heard that Dawnstar was very far north and covered in snow all year round. Cold, even by Skyrim's standards.

"We could hunt along the way," she called back, her eyes never leaving the horizon, as though she expected an attack—and a dragon sailed out of the swirl of clouds overhead, swooping down, roaring its threats with great gusto. Skjari's horse almost reared, and he slipped off it quickly, following Freia, ever the warrior. Her dark horse drew the beast's attention and was the target of its icy flames while she drew a sword, casting protections around her steed, and disappeared up a tree.

A great noise was heard— it was a loud rumble that seemed to drag the beast out of the sky—and the dragon crashed through the foliage around, sending huge splinters of pine, snapping whole trees with its immense body, seemingly stunned by the sound.

Skjari was shocked, for this was his first encounter with such a thing and for a long moment, he did not know what to do. It was only when he realised that Freia had leapt onto the mighty creature's head that he acted, finding his own weapons, firing arrows at the dragon's great scaly cranium. To his horror, only a few of these projectiles stuck firmly into the hide, while others bounced harmlessly off the ridges that lined its face. The dragon now reared up, trying with all its might to throw the woman off, which spurred Skjari to fire even more rapidly, frantic. All he needed was to create an opening—and his heart leapt when Freia was thrown up into the air, but she caught a horn that grew out so jaggedly of the dragon's jaw, swinging back away from the jaws of death, struggling to get a foothold in its craggy hide.

And then, he saw his moment.

She recovered the advantage when an arrow found a way into the soft spot on its throat—the beast's thrashing became more desperate but futile; for when Freia was finally flung off it, a gaping split was left in the place of the dragon's neck, gushing giant spouts of redness. She rolled to her feet near Skjari, breathing controlled and stable, with bloodied blade in hand. When the dragon finally passed, a great stream of light and power seemed to course through, from it to her. Skjari had heard of such tales, of those who could slay dragons and obtain some form of power, the shout similar to one that he had learnt while growing up at court.

But never did he dream that he would be travelling with a dragonborn.

He looked at the woman who was busying herself with the large carcass, slowly slicing at what was left of the disintegrating body, coming away curiously bloodless, and with a bundle of the monster's scales and bones in arm. Skjari found himself in awe of her yet again, wondering just how it was that she seemed as yet, unfettered by the death she wrought on living things. This was when the horses came back, clopping faintly on the almost-flattened cobblestones, their hooves bloodied by another unknown source.

"Ah. So we were being followed." Her voice was undeniably wry.


End file.
